


give and cake

by brideofquiet



Series: what's for dessert? [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, KitchenAids, M/M, and the home decor debates caused by said appliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: “Steve,” Bucky says, laughing. He rounds the kitchen counter and drags Steve into a unreciprocated hug; Steve has his arms folded over his chest and keeps them there. “Honey, come on. I’m sorry I’m ruining your precious color scheme.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: what's for dessert? [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/780072
Comments: 43
Kudos: 299





	give and cake

**Author's Note:**

> Here's your twice-yearly check-in on these boys.

The thing is, as the person with an art degree in the household, Steve is generally in charge of interior decorating. It’s an unspoken rule, but one Steve has become quite attached to since he and Bucky moved in together. The slow process of developing an actual style together instead of the initial hodge podge of Steve’s thrifted things shoehorned in and amongst Bucky’s hand-me-downs has been a rewarding one. A year and change later, Steve’s finally mostly happy with the way their home looks. Modern but comfortable, neat but not minimalist—God forbid. There are traces of both of their personalities in the decor: Steve’s original work on their walls, Bucky’s ever-growing cookbook collection in the bookcase by the door. A cohesive color scheme of whites, warm earth tones, and cool greens.

Which is why Steve nearly threatens divorce when Bucky comes home from a Shabbat visit with his family holding a bright red KitchenAid stand mixer, plops it on the counter—where it will live because they have such little cabinet space already—and says, “Huh. Doesn’t really match anything, does it?”

They’re not married. Still.

“No,” Steve says, teeth clenched, “it doesn’t.”

“They got a new one,” Bucky explains, “so they gave me this one. Probably wouldn’t have bought one myself, but it’ll be nice to have.”

“Sure.”

“My mom just kind of shoved it into my hands as I was leaving, or I would’ve told you about it. Had to carry it on the train—nightmare.”

“Uh huh.”

“But it  _ really _ clashes. Wow.”

“Your color theory is just—chef’s kiss, Buck.”

It’s then that Bucky finally tears his eyes off the red monstrosity taking over their kitchen counter. His eyes narrow. 

The other thing is,  _ technically _ speaking, the kitchen is Bucky’s domain. Steve doesn’t really cook—usually just orders takeout on the rare nights Bucky points at him and says, “Your turn.” But Bucky learned properly from his mother, and enjoys it too, so Steve ceded control of this particular room to him.

The border is fuzzy, here.

“I could paint it,” Steve ventures.

Bucky snorts at him. “Really, Steve?”

“Spray paint. It’ll be easy.”

“What’s my mom gonna say when she comes over here and sees you painted her beloved KitchenAid?”

“She gave it to us!”

“She gave it to  _ me.” _

“Oh, whatever.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, laughing. He rounds the kitchen counter and drags Steve into a unreciprocated hug; Steve has his arms folded over his chest and keeps them there. “Honey, come on. I’m sorry I’m ruining your precious color scheme.”

“You helped me decide on it!”

“I know, I know—hey.” Bucky takes him by the chin to force Steve to look at him. “Are you really mad about this, or are you just being pouty so we can have make-up sex later?”

“Bucky!” Steve shoves him away with both palms to his chest, knocking the wind out of him enough to make his laughter wheezy.

Steve means to stay offended, hand to God. 

It’s just that both their schedules have been balls to the wall recently, which has meant no balls to anybody’s walls for the past few weeks. So later that evening, when Bucky tweaks the shower curtain back and asks to join with a smirk on his face, Steve huffs but makes room. When Bucky slides to his knees on the shower mat and guides Steve by the hips to stand in front of him—well, Steve lets him get away with that too.

“I’m still painting it,” he pants, hand knotted in Bucky’s hair. “Just ‘cause you’re sucking my dick—”

Only then Bucky does something miraculous with his tongue, and Steve forgets for a while about how words work, much less which ones he wanted to say.

“I got a solution,” Bucky says on Sunday morning, when they’re curled up on the couch and half-naked again. God, Steve missed Bucky’s dick. The rest of him, though? “We could just get a whole rainbow.”

Jury’s still out. “Are you about to open some kinda pride-themed bakery I’m not aware of?”

“Just think about it. Roy G. Biv.”

“I’m not gonna fuck you.”

“Aw, Steve.”

“No—hey!” Bucky scoops him up from the couch and starts carrying him bridal-style toward the bedroom, shuffling slowly due to his joggers being caught around his ankles. “I mean it! You’re not getting any more till you let me paint that thing!”

“Gonna paint something,” Bucky says, then licks Steve’s cheek.

“Oh, my  _ God.” _

On Monday morning—after Bucky’s gone off to catch his train and before Steve has to go hope the MTA’s got its shit together today—Steve crosses territory lines to take a rough inventory of the kitchen. He’s  _ allowed _ to; he pays for almost half of it most months, except when he can’t find work and Bucky very conspicuously turns a check in on time anyway. They’re still figuring out the whole “appropriately splitting finances without actually merging any accounts because Bucky’s dad thinks they shouldn’t till they’re married” thing.

Still, it’s half his kitchen, really. He can look in the cabinets and move things around to try to find a place for this candy-colored monstrosity.

Except he can’t, and then he realizes he’s late and half their pots are still strewn all over the counter. There’s no time to cover up his meddling, so he might as well own up to it. On his way out the door, he snaps a picture of the mess and sends it to Bucky.

**Steve Rogers** _sent 10:27 a.m._ _  
_ I can explain

**Bucky Barnes** _received 10:32 a.m._ _  
_ Someday you’re gonna have to get a new line you know

A full eight hours of teaching bougie homeschool kids how to crosshatch later, Steve is dragging his feet on the walk to their building. There’s an elevator to their floor, thank God, because Steve is pretty sure he would make it up about half a flight before he had to sit down. Shitty air quality. That, and the bone deep exhaustion that can only come from working with elementary schoolers.

He likes the kids—he does; nothing better than a kid whose creativity hasn’t been crippled by overthinking form. Still, though. There’s only so many times a man can stand to explain that  _ yes, see, when you mix red and green it turns into mud, stop doing that.  _

It’s only as he’s keying in that he remembers the mess he’d left in the kitchen. When he walks through the door, he calls out, “Babe, hey, sorry about the mess—gimme a minute and I’ll clean it up.”

Bucky appears in the living area, wiping his hands off on his well-loved ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron. “What? Oh, I took care of it already.”

“You did?” At Bucky’s nod, Steve shuffles across the floor and crashes bodily into him. Bucky yelps and wraps his arms around him, steadying. “God, you’re the best.”

“Welcome home,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss to Steve’s head.

Steve just buries himself deeper in Bucky’s sweater. “You smell like lemons.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“Mm. Dinner?”

“Uh, well. I could throw some water on to boil for pasta—”

Steve pulls back. “Then what did you make?” He sniffs the air. “What’s that smell?”

“I, um, may have taken the KitchenAid for a spin when I got home.”

Politely pushing Bucky aside, Steve stomps into the kitchen, inhaling deep. On the counter is a plate full of cookies, a half-frosted cake, and a timer ticking down the minutes till whatever the hell’s still in the oven is ready to come out.

“A spin,” Steve repeats.

“Or three.”

“How long have you been  _ home?”  _ Steve whirls on him, smiling despite himself; the smell of cinnamon is too strong to feel anything other than cozy and warm.

“My four o’clock meeting got canceled, so I ditched out a little early to—”

“To come home and bake your little baby heart out.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. KitchenAids increase efficiency, so.”

In the midst of his hackles raising about the color scheme desecration, Steve forgot that a stand mixer equals dessert. Blame it on the paint fumes—they were bound to affect his cognitive functioning at some point. Suddenly red is his favorite color.

“This is the best Monday ever,” Steve says. “No pasta. Cake for dinner.”

An incredulous smile spreads over Bucky’s face. “This mean I get to keep it?”

“Buck, you know I was never gonna actually make you get rid of it. Right?”

“Well—”

“Oh, my God, how mean do you think I am? Don’t answer that.” He sidles up to Bucky to wrap both arms around his waist, then kisses his cheek just to prove how sweet he is. “What is all this? Snickerdoodles and…”

“Honey cake with lemon buttercream, then there’s a chocolate souffle in the oven—I couldn’t decide what I wanted so I just, y’know. But I’ll take some to work—”

“No, you won’t.”

“Steve, we  _ cannot _ eat all this,” Bucky protests, but from his pleased smile, Steve can tell it’s an act.

“Sounds like a challenge to me.” Steve reaches for the plate of cookies and breaks one in two, pressing half to Bucky’s lips. “Go big or go home, Barnes.”

“Oh, my God,” Bucky mumbles, mouth full of cookie. “We are home!”

Steve just grins around his cookie half. He eats three more while sitting on the counter to watch Bucky finish icing the cake, then helps with clean-up while the souffle cools, and when Bucky finds a spot for the KitchenAid on top of the fridge—still absurdly visible but at least out of the way—he feels very, very glad to be home.


End file.
